


The Misconception About Thirteen-Year-Old Sex Gods

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:43:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Both Dave and John have perceptions about sex that turn out to be completely and utterly wrong. It ain't no flawlessly sexy porno with perfectly sculpted hairless bodies, to say the least.</p><p>Basically: awkward puberty-riddled boys going at it for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Misconception About Thirteen-Year-Old Sex Gods

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into Homestuck fanfic and DaveJohn. I apologize for my inability to write Dave, which is why I stuck to weird second person subjective narration thingamabob instead of straight dialogue because I would fuck that shit up hardcore, mis amigos.

 

 

You've known for years that your best friend was about the dorkiest kid alive, and it's only been reaffirmed in your head now that puberty has its ugly greasy claws stuck knuckles deep in the poor kid. 

 

He's thirteen and you're thirteen and it's just starting to show on the both of you in different ways. You've grown long and lanky in some of the right places and a lot of the wrong ones, and most of your life nowadays is spent trying to avoid murdering yourself every time you try to coordinate your gangly tangle of limbs into a functioning human body. You've got fucked up teeth and not the money to fix them so they hang crookedly between your lips when you give that infrequent cool-kid grin,  and you find they add a measure of wicked and deranged attraction to your scarecrow-like frame, which marks the meter of irony up an extra notch. Not all the changes in your body are for the better but you deal with it and take it in stride.

 

However--puberty, you've discovered tends to cut some people deeper then others. And Exhibit A of a victim practically _impaled_ by the demon of greasy skin and hairy armpits is your friend-turned-hormone-driven-fuckpal, John Egbert. 

 

Unlike you, he's still short, having not yet hit a growth spurt yet. He has big thick coke bottle glasses that make his eyes look massive and positively Disneyesque-- big blue Bambi'd peepers more fit on the face of innocence itself than on that of an awkward teenaged boy. He was still slightly pudgy around the middle, (because despite his constant negation, he _does_ enjoy his dad's cakes) and his face was still rounded and filled out with baby fat. He's got pimples and pizza-faced pockmarks all over his face, scattered down his neck and even venturing onto the pale expanse of his back. 

 

He's even got _braces_ if the image wasn't clichéd enough, and you know from a very brief run of experience that those things are hard to negotiate amidst masses of tongue and lips and teeth. Which is the minefield you are currenly navigating, what with your best friend pinned beneath you on your bed with his legs twined around your own.

 

You've done this before amidst stumbled whimpers of _no homo_ and moans that spoke otherwise, but this is different because you two are about to completely knock the proverbial ball out of the park and run the bases holding hands and skipping until you slide onto ( _into_ ) home plate-- 

 

John offers in that stuttering and staggered way to suck you off and though that sounds nice you shoot down the idea instinctively, reminded of the reason _why_ the moment you see a flash of silver and blue plastic from behind his downturned lips. No way in hell you were going to let that mangled metal mouth near your manhood. 

 

So instead you ease yourself between his legs, though he instinctively curled his calves around your thighs once you had settled yourself. 

 

You rub your hands over his underwear and his voice squeaks and cracks and he ties his fingers into your hair, tugging you forward until your hips and chests bump together. You rub together the beginnings of hair that cover a strip up your bodies from dick to nipple together and the ticklish sensations make John gasp and giggle and spit a little bit over his lip. The braces weren't too good for his water retention. 

 

Your fingers seemed to tangle with themselves somehow as you struggle to pull John's boxers down over his bulge, and his heavily bitten nails only dig further into your scalp every time you grace over his hardening dick. 

 

You feel a bit of smug satisfaction when you see that he's smaller than you--not much, but  an inch of pride is still an inch--and more like a worm poking out of a jungle of tangled black Egbert pubes than a throbbing pubescent hard-on. You kind of want to comment on how cute it looks but you're pretty sure John would slug you and make you sleep on the couch. So you keep your mouth shut except when you lean down to kiss the daylights out of John, who responds with equal gusto, his braces nipping at your lip as you slip through tongue past his tonsils (or rather, lack thereof).  

 

John smells like sweat and body stank and you're pretty sure you smell the same except slightly masked with some petulant body spray but you don't care because _fuck it_ you're two horny filthy boys rutting at it like motherfucking bunnies, who gives a shit how much you stink of pheromones? 

 

Once you pull his boxers down to his knees he props himself up on his elbows so he can help you shrug out of yours and just like that you're both stark naked--and you take a moment to glance over his spit-stained chin and messy black hair and slightly chubby stomach as he takes in your freckled pretzel-stick arms, bony and pale neck craned like some anorexic swan--

 

And then you whip off your glasses and his in one fluid totally wicked-sweet movement and toss them out to the side and before he can bolt up and shove you off to retrieve them you've got his mouth pinned again and a hand between the two of you.

 

In your head you have a complete and perfect idea of how this is supposed to go, how you're supposed to give John the best fucking handjob of his life and make him scream and shout like the valiant boys in the buck-naked blue that populate all the internet pop-ups. 

 

Instead you're like a damn puppet with half of its string cut, flailing about like an utter dickwad as your struggle to jerk both yourself and John off in one overlarge hand. Sometimes you pull him the wrong way and he winces, accidentally tugging at your hair and not too accidentally smacking you in the chest and telling you to "quit it" and then you're telling him to shut up because he's breaking your concentration. And when he doesn't quit his whining you go back to kissing him senseless, and you think that next time you'll stick to making out and basic touching because as much as you hate to admit it you kind of _suck_ hardcore at giving handjobs. 

 

Eventually John seems to realize this, because he swats your hand aside and instead takes both of you together, and _fuck_ those pianist fingers make up for the fact that his hand is too small and can barely hold the two of your together without fumbling. Now with your hands free it's your turn to clutch and squeeze at him, one hand feeling up his chest as the other pinches at the pudgy curve of his hip. You lean down to kiss him and you wind up panting and moaning against his lips as he rubs both of your dicks together and _holy shit_ the slight rough flick of one ragged bitten nail is just the slightest masochistic twinge you need to send your spooge flying over John's hand and cock and belly and you swear and bite into his neck. And just like you that little bit of pain pushes John over the proverbial edge and he comes with a cracked teenaged squeak.

 

You don't realize that you're still practically chewing on John's throat until he swats you on the shoulder and pushes at you, so you roll off of him and onto your back, sweaty and somewhat satisfied. John relaxed with a sigh besides you, chest heaving up and down and breath coming in little pants. He slaps a hand to his sweaty forehead with a sigh before sitting bolt upright and squeaking in disgust.  

 

"G-Gross," John stutters, his hand still caked with a Strider-Egbert cumbaby, and seems grateful for his own foresight to stock a box of tissues on their nightstand. He wipes his hand and stomach and forehead down and turns towards you, shakily raising his hand as if asking permission. You nonchalantly shrug your shoulders and he cleans you off meticulously, tongue poked out from under his teeth in a way that's too cute for someone who's washing down his fuckbuddy's genitals. After he's done he tosses the tissue in the waste basket and pulls the covers over both of  you unprompted, sliding them snugly under your chin. You snort and he chuckles, taking your hand under the covers. 

 

And somehow the warmth and tenderness of his hand on yours makes the whole enormity of what you too just did hit you--you both are only thirteen and you just practically had sex and it was sweaty and dirty and _awkward_ and if you thought there was no going back after your first kiss, there is definitely no going back _now_. 

 

You go stiff and some immature part of you that is still a kid wants you to throw off the sheets and push John Egbert onto the floor like he just broke your favorite toy. 

 

But you don't, and John tucks himself comfortably into your side and almost immediately starts snoozing against your shoulder because apparently giving non-awkward super-amazing handjobs is the most tiring chore ever. You kind of wish he was awake because you feel the incredibly uncool need to _talk_ about what you're feeling right now, to put the fact that you just jerked each other off into the context of your blooming bromance, to feel the security that things between you two haven't _changed_ , they've just gotten better--

 

But you suppose it can wait until the morning. 


End file.
